I. THE BOY WHO WENT TO CALIFORNIA TO FIND GOD OR NOTHINGNESS OR BOTH
J. is leaving in two days for Tassajara where he is going to be counseled in Zen Buddhism and eventually enter a monkhood. I am glad for him---and also devastated. The other day we pressed the soles of our feet together, Boku-maru style, but nothing came. I worry sometimes that I have no spirit. All I have is poetry. And while people don't mind when I say that God is poetry, they are not so keen when I insist that it works both ways. Simply put: I cannot believe I am losing my best friend to God.
II. SHORT CONVERSATIONS WITH A BOY IN SPAIN
I never get used to hearing my own name spoken. "It's a beautiful letter" is so very different than "It's a beautiful letter, Amanda." I am always moved. Sadly, gladly, impossibly.
III. PORPHYRIA'S LOVER TAKES TO THE DESERT
I kissed someone I shouldn't have. Again. Yet another person that's leaving. The themes just keep recurring, it's hysterical. Only this friend is leaving for Iraq. It's maddening because he is the kindest, funniest guy I know. I cannot imagine him stalking about in Sadr City, née Revolution City. Makes me realize I have a certain scheme for soldiers, one that is probably unfair. And skinny boys who love Robert Browning and tell the best jokes don't fit in there. Anyway. After the accidental kiss, we talked about Goya and I got upset. And he said Don't worry, I'll be all right, I've got some meanness in me. I said But I can't see it I can't see it in you at all. And he says Well I pray you never have to. I can be so mean and I hope it never touches you.
IV. BIG BROTHER BRAVES THE ALASKAN WOODS
Stumbling across bears, moose, and ptarmigans. I feel his loss least of all, maybe because he's only disappeared to the places he belongs. Like myths that go to sleep in their star-houses. He used to guard my house until I fell asleep, back when I was sixteen and living alone. I feel like he's still protecting me, just from a greater distance.
V. SWEET HOMEALABAMA CHICAGO?
And then there's the part where I may or may not be leaving. I feel the South more heavily, more acutely, more somberly than ever now that I know I very well may be leaving it behind. It's as if all the ghosts are appealing to me at once with last wishes. The river is so mud-ugly/snake-wonderful I am sure it hides hundreds of poems in its lazy ripples.
J. is leaving in two days for Tassajara where he is going to be counseled in Zen Buddhism and eventually enter a monkhood. I am glad for him---and also devastated. The other day we pressed the soles of our feet together, Boku-maru style, but nothing came. I worry sometimes that I have no spirit. All I have is poetry. And while people don't mind when I say that God is poetry, they are not so keen when I insist that it works both ways. Simply put: I cannot believe I am losing my best friend to God.
II. SHORT CONVERSATIONS WITH A BOY IN SPAIN
I never get used to hearing my own name spoken. "It's a beautiful letter" is so very different than "It's a beautiful letter, Amanda." I am always moved. Sadly, gladly, impossibly.
III. PORPHYRIA'S LOVER TAKES TO THE DESERT
I kissed someone I shouldn't have. Again. Yet another person that's leaving. The themes just keep recurring, it's hysterical. Only this friend is leaving for Iraq. It's maddening because he is the kindest, funniest guy I know. I cannot imagine him stalking about in Sadr City, née Revolution City. Makes me realize I have a certain scheme for soldiers, one that is probably unfair. And skinny boys who love Robert Browning and tell the best jokes don't fit in there. Anyway. After the accidental kiss, we talked about Goya and I got upset. And he said Don't worry, I'll be all right, I've got some meanness in me. I said But I can't see it I can't see it in you at all. And he says Well I pray you never have to. I can be so mean and I hope it never touches you.
IV. BIG BROTHER BRAVES THE ALASKAN WOODS
Stumbling across bears, moose, and ptarmigans. I feel his loss least of all, maybe because he's only disappeared to the places he belongs. Like myths that go to sleep in their star-houses. He used to guard my house until I fell asleep, back when I was sixteen and living alone. I feel like he's still protecting me, just from a greater distance.
V. SWEET HOME
And then there's the part where I may or may not be leaving. I feel the South more heavily, more acutely, more somberly than ever now that I know I very well may be leaving it behind. It's as if all the ghosts are appealing to me at once with last wishes. The river is so mud-ugly/snake-wonderful I am sure it hides hundreds of poems in its lazy ripples.
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